Can I even win this?
The thought slipped through Atalanta's mind, quiet but sharp, as sunlight poured across the empty arena.
The sky was a polished glass of deep blue, completely clear—thanks, no doubt, to Apollo showing off. The midday sun burned high above them, casting Cyd's shadow long across the sand. Gold light shimmered along the sigil seared into his right arm—an emblem of the sun itself. His body radiated a pressure so clear and overwhelming it was almost divine.
He was in peak condition.
Atalanta narrowed her eyes.
"You mad at me?" Cyd asked, standing beside her, voice low but not exactly cautious.
"I don't know," she said flatly.
That answer was more honest than either of them liked.
Iasos, who'd been practically bursting with excitement minutes ago, had the decency to stay silent now. He wasn't a hero himself, but even he could recognize what was happening. Cyd's performance had eclipsed everything. The race had technically begun—but it was already over the moment he stepped on the field. The crowd didn't even cheer this time. They held their breath.
"Artemis told me about the race," Cyd said, scratching the side of his face. "Figured someone should show up."
So it was Artemis.
Of course it was her.
Atalanta's lashes dropped as her gaze fell.
This had nothing to do with him. Of course it didn't. He wasn't here because of her—he was here because of the gods. Because of the blessings he needed. Because this ridiculous trial had become part of his story, not hers.
Maybe she should've known better. Maybe she had known better—and still said yes. Even she didn't understand why.
She was supposed to remain untouched, sworn to Artemis as a virgin huntress. She knew that. She believed in that. So why had she agreed to a marriage race? Why had she let hope creep into her ribs like a seed cracking stone?
She didn't know.
All she knew was this: for once in her life, she wasn't running toward a finish line—she was frozen in place.
And it hurt.
Was it anger? Maybe. But too soft.
Joy? It twisted too much to be called that.
Why did it feel like this? Like acid and honey both on her tongue? She wanted to scream. To cry. To hit him or hold him or do something, anything, to end this confusion in her chest—but no matter what her instincts screamed at her, her body didn't move.
Was this her punishment?
"You don't look like yourself," Cyd murmured, placing a hand on her head and giving her hair a rough, familiar rub. "A hunter's not supposed to look like she's about to cry, you know. You'll scare off the prey."
"I'm not even sure who I'm hunting anymore." Her voice was too soft. She didn't swat his hand away this time.
That surprised him.
The old Atalanta would've bristled like a wildcat and snapped his fingers off. She was the type to bite first, soften never. But now she was still. Tame. Defeated, almost.
He didn't like it.
"Don't hold back," he said, frowning. "If you go easy on me, I'll be pissed."
"I won't," she said, her eyes sharpening with that old, feral glint.
"Good." He pointed toward the finish line. It shimmered in the distance like a mirage. "Then chase me like you mean it. Run till the haze in your head clears. Run like it matters. Because it does."
She lowered her body, tensing. "That's easy for you to say. What do you know?"
Cyd shrugged. "Not much. Just that I finally stopped running. Came here 'cause I chose to. Thought that counted for something."
Then, before she could snap back, he flicked a pebble into the air.
Plink.
It hit the ground.
They moved.
No signal. No trumpet. Just instinct.
Their feet broke across the line, twin blurs slicing through sunlight.
Atalanta had always let her opponents run first. It was her thing—let them bolt, then catch them in a blink. But against Cyd? That confidence shattered. She couldn't afford to trail behind. Not even for a second.
And still… he was faster.
The distance between them stretched with every heartbeat.
Her breath caught.
Don't leave me.
The words hovered at the back of her throat.
If she said them—cried them out—he might've stopped. He probably would've. But that wasn't her. She wasn't some girl begging to be waited on.
…Was she?
Her hand reached forward on its own, grasping at the air, hoping to brush his shoulder—his hair—something.
She touched nothing.
It was already too late.
Cyd was gone.
And then—
CRACK.
He crossed the line with such force the earth split beneath his feet. Twin furrows tore through the ground as he skidded to a halt.
Behind him, Atalanta lost control.
She stumbled.
Her momentum crumpled, and she crashed to the ground, breath ragged, knees burning.
She'd pushed herself to the fastest speed of her life.
And still… she lost.
Just as she'd known she would.
"Hey, Atalanta—are you…" Cyd stepped toward her and reached out a hand—
But stopped midway.
Because her eyes—those sharp green eyes—met his.
They weren't angry.
They weren't sad.
They weren't happy, either.
They were everything. Joy. Hurt. Frustration. Hope. All tangled together in a mess too heavy to describe.
He slowly curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his hand.
Iasos, oblivious to the tension like any good politician, shot to his feet.
"Behold! The victor! The white-haired hero wins the race! Let the celebrations begin!"
The crowd erupted, finally letting loose the roar they'd held in their lungs.
Cheers. Praise. Cyd, Cyd, Cyd.
Nobody even looked at her.
Of course, Atalanta thought bitterly. No one wanted me to win. He was the hero they were all waiting for.
She lowered her head and let out a breathless, broken laugh.
She should've stood up by now. Pride demanded it. But what was the point? Who was waiting for her to rise?
Maybe the tale of the huntress ended here, where it always had to.
Cyd stared at her.
Hard.
His fingernails dug into his palms.
This wasn't the outcome he'd come for.
He'd braced himself for Atalanta to snap at him, curse him, bite him. Something. But this… quiet?
This wasn't her.
This wasn't right.
"Hey…" he said softly, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the sunlight shimmered across his silver lashes. The green crystal in his bracer, Hermes' blessing, pulsed faintly at his wrist.
"Are you happy, Atalanta?"
She didn't look up. Her voice, when it came, was the smallest thing in the whole arena.
"I don't know. I… I don't know anything right now."
"I do," Cyd said, resting his hand on his forehead. The wind blew his white hair across his face, light catching in it like stars.
I know what you're feeling.
She wasn't lost because she lost a race.
She was lost because somewhere along the way, she'd started wanting something more than victory.
Cyd looked at her—really looked.
And all he wanted…
…was to help her find herself again.